Red Morning Light
by sarsaparillia
Summary: Ron leaves, Hermione cries, and Harry feels nothing at all. Three days later, Draco Malfoy turns up and things get… interesting. — Draco/Hermione.
1. a new kind of tension

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
**dedication**: to Chloe because she beta'd this sort of.  
**notes**: because I could never nail down a plot for _sub zero_. so that's gone, for now; instead, _this_!

**chapter title**: a new kind of tension  
**summary**: Ron leaves, Hermione cries, and Harry feels nothing at all. Three days later, Draco Malfoy turns up and things get… interesting. — Draco/Hermione.

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Harry and Hermione sat in the tent that night, hands cupped around lukewarm mugs of tea, hollowed-out eyes and thin white lines for mouths.

"What do we do now?" asked Hermione. She sounded, for the very first time in all the years Harry had known her, truly lost. She looked small and withdrawn into herself, shoulders drawn up around her ears. For a ridiculous moment, Harry thought she was going to crumple into herself completely and turn to dust.

Ron had been their balance, a third of the triumvirate that had kept him alive during the last seven years of his life. He'd kept them light when Harry got too dark and when Hermione got too serious. Without him, they were distinctly out of sorts.

But they did not have time to mourn. Harry and Hermione would have to go on together alone, because that was what they had sworn to do.

Voldemort wasn't going to be defeated if they didn't, and the world was never going to be safe.

They didn't have a _choice_.

They were just going to have to do it without Ron. The thought hurt, but it was what it was—they couldn't fall apart over this. Not yet. They still had things to do.

Harry set his jaw.

"We keep going," he said.

"We have to, don't we," said Hermione. It wasn't a question. Her voice was very low, and a little rough around the edges like she was choking on her on own breath.

"Yeah," said Harry, "We do."

"Okay," said Hermione. "Oh—okay. We—I—I'm going to bed, I think."

Harry nodded, and Hermione stood up from the table without another word. She very nearly staggered to her bedroom, knees knocking together as she walked and shoulders shaking with supressed emotion.

Harry didn't follow her. His hands clenched convulsively around his tea. It was going to be even more difficult, from here on out. They were missing their balance, and they would have to talk about it in the morning. As he pushed himself away from the table and went to his room, he glanced backwards.

Their two cups looked very lonely, forgotten as they were. There was something incredibly symbolic, there, Harry thought, but he was too tired to put it into words in his head.

If he heard Hermione sobbing through the thin canvas of the wall, he pretended not to notice.

—

"We can't stay here," Harry said in the morning.

Hermione had stayed in bed longer than she ever had, 'til long after the sun had come up, and he watched her carefully. There were deep dark bags beneath her eyes and her hair looked as though something had made a nest in it overnight. She looked as though she hadn't slept at all.

"I know," said Hermione. She sat down next to him, shoulders hunched beneath a thick quilt they'd filched from the Burrow before they'd left. "Is there tea?"

The kettle whistled cheerfully, and Harry managed a grin. "Right on time."

Hermione smiled weakly back, and in the gesture, there was some sort of truce. They were missing a bit of themselves—an important bit, no doubt—but they would get along. Harry poured the tea, and set it down in front of her. Three spoons full of sugar (her parents would have killed her), no cream. That was Hermione, that was, and Harry couldn't help but reach out, pull her into an awkward hug, and ruffle the hair on the top of her head.

She didn't even get mad, and Harry thought that they all probably could have used a little comfort.

"Harry…" Hermione started slowly. "Do you think… maybe just…? I mean, he can't have—do you think we could stay? Just another day, that's all. If we leave, he won't—"

If they left, he wouldn't be able to find them again. Harry knew that. Harry knew that Hermione knew that, too.

They could spare one more day for their best friend.

He nodded into her hair. She was warm and familiar as an old blanket—Hermione had always been there, always, and Merlin, he loved her. Not the same way he loved Ginny (because there was no one in the entire world that Harry loved the way Harry loved Ginny), but he loved her all the same. She was his sister, and she was still around after a very, very long time.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, we'll stay another day; it'll be a good break."

But one day turned into two turned into three, and at that point, neither Harry nor Hermione could pretend that Ron was coming back. They didn't speak of it, and as they began to take down their camp, there was an awkward division as they tried to figure out who would do what—without Ron, there was an extra third of the work to do, but they figured it out.

That was what Harry and Hermione did. They figured things out.

Just as they were finishing the last spells that would vanish the last evidence of their ever being there, the alarms went off. They were both on the alert, wands out, Stunners on their lips and ready for anything.

(But how could they be? They were teenagers, and they weren't ready for this. They weren't ready for any of this.)

"Do you think it's—?" Hermione whispered.

Harry shook his head, fast, fast. It wasn't Ron. And even if it was—well—they would cross that bridge when they got to it. But for now, there was someone unfamiliar and possibly unfriendly on the other side of their wards, and that was _not a good thing_.

"Are the Anti-Apparition wards up?" said Harry, so quietly his lips barely moved.

"Yes," Hermione breathed. "Always."

"Be ready to drop them," Harry replied, eyes trained on the tent-flap opening. Whoever it was would not be able to see them when he stepped out, but he would be able to see them, and then they could make their decision.

"Stay here," he said.

"Right behind you," said Hermione, cheerfully stone-faced.

He stepped out, and blinked owlishly at Draco Malfoy.

Both Hermione and Harry got the eeriest feeling he could see them, even though he was staring right through them. They glanced at each other, and then snarled in perfect unison:

"_Stupefy_!"

—

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_tbc_.

**notes2**: and then this happened.  
**notes3**: let's see if my attention span is long enough to deal with this shit.


	2. the only thing on is the radio

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
**dedication**: Sonya, this time, for giving me a place to sleep. also Chloe, because, well, Chloe is my sort-of beta.  
**notes**: I say sort-of because mostly what she does is scream at me, which isn't really helpful, but is quite amusing, _so_.

**chapter title**: the only thing on is the radio  
**summary**: Ron leaves, Hermione cries, and Harry feels nothing at all. Three days later, Draco Malfoy turns up, and things get… interesting. — Draco/Hermione, others.

—

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Draco Malfoy's world came into focus slowly and blurrily. Or at least, Harry was pretty sure he did—he knew how it felt to be Stunned in place, and with two strong Stunners at once… well, they would be lucky if they hadn't accidentally scrambled his brains.

Then again, that was assuming that Malfoy had any brains in the first place.

Harry and Hermione stood over him, wands pointed at his throat just as he opened his eyes, lips thinned into identical pale lines.

Not one of them moved.

A muscle twitched in Harry's jaw. He had a lot of questions and also a lot of pity—but he could feel Hermione vibrating beside him, and this was _Malfoy_, and no one should have been able to find them. He looked down at the pale, pointy kid he had—for all intents and purposes—grown up with, wand still level with his jugular. All Harry could think about was the Astronomy Tower, and how Malfoy had lowered his wand.

"How did you find us?" demanded Hermione.

Malfoy sneered up at her.

This was not the response Hermione wanted, as far as Harry could tell.

Hermione's wand inched closer to his throat, and they all could see the tremble in her hand. Malfoy couldn't take his eyes off her, Harry notice. It might have been the product of the fact that she looked more than a little bit manic, especially with her hair everywhere in those springy, frizzy curls that were so very dear, and the fact that she _did_ have a wand at his throat, but it looked—

_Nah_, thought Harry. _Couldn't be_.

The idea was sort of amusing, though. He shook his head to himself and laid a hand on Hermione's arm. She turned and _growled_ at him.

Well. That was a fair bit terrifying.

"Luck," Malfoy said through grit teeth. Harry watched something flicker across his face—pain, or mistrust maybe—and lowered his wand. Hermione looked scandalized.

"Harry," she hissed through her teeth, "what are you _doing_!?"

He shrugged. "Look at him, Hermione," like that would change her mind. Hermione stared at him, mouth working around words that would probably bite and scratch and hurt, but instead she didn't say anything at all.

She took a slow, deep breath, and then looked down at Malfoy. She was calm and cool and rational and very _Hermione_, and then she raised her wand. "_Petrificus Totalus_, she said and then grabbed Harry but the front of his shirt and bodily dragged him from the tent without a backwards glance.

"Ow," said Harry, deadpan.

"Stop that," said Hermione. "What are you _thinking_, Harry? We can't—how did he _find_ us!? I'm sure I made it impossible to trace us, or, or, or _anything_, and Harry, I—"

Harry rolled his eyes towards the sky, and waited for Hermione to rant herself out. Finally, she looked at him with tired, scared eyes, and said "So?"

In reply, Harry wrapped his arms around her. It was all he could do, really; she still looked fragile and shocked from before, and now she was scared and off-balance from _Malfoy_ of all people showing up. She was his best friend, his sister, and it killed him to see her like this.

But.

"He might know something, Hermione," said Harry.

Which was true. It was very possible that Draco Malfoy knew things about Voldemort's plans that neither of them had any idea of. And still, every time Harry closed his eyes, all he could see was a haggard boy his age, lowering his wand.

She hadn't been there. She didn't know.

Hermione stared up at him, jaw set stubborn, lips twisted, and certainly about to argue with him. Harry over-rode her before she could get there, because once Hermione got started on a subject, it was very, very hard to get her to stop.

"You didn't see him, Hermione. You weren't there," he said gently.

"I know, but this is—this is Malfoy, and he's always been such a horrid little boy, Harry, and he—he took the _Mark_! He's… _evil_, and you know it."

"I do," said Harry. "But you know me, Hermione. Sucker for the lost causes. 'Specially house-elves."

Her lips twisted again, but this time, it was a little more mirthful. It took her a minute, but she seemed to get a handle on herself. "But it's _Malfoy_, Harry!"

"You sound like—" Harry paused. He didn't want to say Ron's name. It was still too raw. "—you know who."

The fight went out of her, just like that. She leaned her forehead against Harry's chest, her hair frizzing up everywhere, and mumbled "He'd be so against this, if he were here."

"But he's not," said Harry. "Aren't you supposed to be the one arguing for the prats? Always told us we should be nicer to things—Kreacher, the Slytherins, I dunno, gigantic spiders?"

A sort of watery chuckle escaped her. "I argue for the underprivileged, Harry, not the racists."

He couldn't argue that. It was why she was still sitting here with him after everything, when even Ron had gone. And now they had a pale pointy Malfoy on their hands who seemed to be running on luck and adrenaline, and no one could keep that up for long. He was going to crash, crash hard and crash soon, and Harry didn't want to be responsible for another death.

Even if _was_ Malfoy they were talking about.

"C'mon," said Harry.

"What?" asked Hermione.

Harry's mouth twisted up into a ridiculous little grin. "It's _winter_, Hermione. Cold, remember?"

"You," she said, "are entirely ridiculous."

"Let's get in, then," Harry replied. "At least that I can be ridiculous and _warm_."

"You're also impossible," said Hermione, but she was smiling now, at the very least, so that was an improvement. She looked a bit more settled, now, more like his no-nonsense, brilliant Hermione, rather than the girl she'd been for the past few days. "And I still think you're mad for giving him a chance.

"Everyone deserves a second chance, Hermione," said Harry very, very quietly.

They stood together for a minute, before Hermione nodded.

"I supposed you're right," she said. She hooked her arm through his, and let him lead the way back into the tent, where Malfoy was laid out on the floor, stiff as a board. Harry raised an eyebrow at Hermione—she was _dangerous_ with that wand of hers.

"They don't call me the brightest witch of my age for _nothing_, you know," she told him imperiously.

"Course not, Hermione," Harry chuckled a little. "Now let the poor bloke up, that can't be comfortable."

"Humph," said Hermione. She lifted her wand, and Draco Malfoy unfroze. She spun around, and stomped to her bedroom. Harry paid her no mind.

"So," said Harry. "Luck, huh?"

Malfoy nodded. He was rolling his joints after Hermione had lifted the _Petrificus_ and stalked off to her room, flinging her long wild hair over her shoulder. There'd be no talking to her for the rest of the night, not when she was like this; Harry had learned from many a night in Gryffindor tower that trying to make her see the sense in looking over his and Ron's respective essays would be easier than letting them do it alone and then feeling guilty when they failed.

That was Hermione for you, though.

"Really, mate?" Harry asked. "Luck?"

Draco Malfoy eyed him the exact same way that Aunt Petunia eyed him: like he was a particularly stubborn bit of dirt that couldn't come out of the carpet no matter what she tried. The association was ridiculous (and possibly a little insane) no matter how he looked at it, but there it was. Harry couldn't help himself. It was just one of those things.

"Yeah," Malfoy said again, and reached beneath his dusty travelling robe. Almost on auto-pilot, Harry whipped his wand back up to Malfoy's throat, but backed down when all he pulled from whatever inner pocket he was reaching into was a small phial that held the last remaining drops of liquid gold.

"Luck," he said.

Harry sat back and thought. Felix Felicis took six months to brew (well, he supposed _something_ would have stuck after six years of Potions, and of course it _would_ have been something Slughorn had taught him). And the phial was tiny enough to hold no more than half a mouthful. In fact, it looked very like the phial Harry himself had received from that very same rotund professor not a year and a half earlier.

"Who gave it to you?"

"Like you give a shit, Potter."

Harry got a very sudden mental image of Malfoy, transformed into a ferret by a Death Eater in disguise, bouncing around the courtyard like some manic Chocolate Frog. This was that same git, only more old and more scared and more lost. So instead Harry just shrugged.

"One more person fighting for what's right, Malfoy."

He didn't say that Malfoy looked like the runaway that he was. They all looked like runaways, these days. Harry sighed. "Hermione won't let you stay unless you say something to convince her, mate. She's logical like that."

"Merlin's arse," sneered Malfoy.

Harry sent him a pointed look that said something along the lines of _she's crazy, man, don't think she won't_ or _she runs this place, don't look at me_.

Malfoy exhaled slowly. "My godfather," he said, reluctantly. "The last he had."

"…Slughorn's your godfather?"

Malfoy stared at him, an incredulous sort of insult across his face. "Potter, I cannot fathom how you ever managed to pass our OWL's. Weasley is rubbing off on you."

Harry was torn between laughing and punching him square in the nose. That was the Malfoy he had grown up with. He just shook his head, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of Hermione's room. "How d'you think?"

"Knew it, I should have collected on that bet with Zabini."

They blinked at each other. The two boys (almost men) could both feel the palpable dislike between them, but there was something about sitting in a dim tent in the middle of some Merlin-forsaken forest that made it dissipate, some.

"She'll insist on Veritaserum."

Malfoy's mouth twitched a little. "Better than the Cruciatus."

Yes, Harry thought. Most anything was better than the Cruciatus curse. From the dark circles under Malfoy's eyes, Harry could tell that he'd personally experienced that sort of _persuasion_ before.

Harry, at the very least, was above such methods. "Gonna need your wand, Malfoy."

Malfoy went as stiff as he'd been when Hermione had hexed him. "No."

Harry sighed again. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately; bit of a sorry habit to get into, he ought to get that checked. "Don't have a choice, Malfoy. Call it collateral."

"What the fuck is collateral?"

"Muggle thing," Harry replied.

Sometimes it was very amusing to completely bamboozle Purebloods with their completely lack of knowledge of all things Muggle. Harry thought he might as well press his advantage while he had it. "Hand it over."

Malfoy withdrew his wand from his robes. He was very, very reluctant. He held it close to his chest, fingers gone white-knuckled around it, and Harry had to wrestle it out of his grasp.

"Do I ever get it back?" Malfoy sneered. His gaze was trained on the shined-to-death wand in Harry's hands, his eyes both horrified and hungry.

Harry shrugged for the third time that night. "Stick around for a while."

Neither of them needed a translation for that one: _don't try to kill us for a while, and maybe we'll trust you, and then __**maybe**__ you'll get your wand back_.

"Get some sleep, Malfoy," said Harry. "Don't let the spiders bite."

And then Harry turned around and headed for the room that Hermione had disappeared into. Malfoy could find somewhere to sleep on his own—there was a couch somewhere underneath the piles of books and paper, probably—and after a night like this, all Harry wanted was to crawl into bed and clung to something safe and familiar for a little while.

He stuck Malfoy's wand into the space beneath the floorboard, into Hermione's beaded bag where they kept Slytherin's locket overnight. That would keep it safe, and none of them would be wearing it—and for now, it'd be best not to tell Malfoy about exactly _what_ they were looking for.

(The trust thing was very important, after all. But Harry had trusted Ron, and Ron had disappeared, so…)

Hermione rolled over, and looked him with wide eyes. "Do we even _have_ any Veritaserum, Harry? How do we know he won't kill us in our sleep?"

He wrapped his arms around her for the second time that night. She was the only sibling he'd ever had, and she tucked herself into him, a little worried, a little scared, a lot exhausted.

"Dunno," said Harry. "I don't think he's lying, Hermione."

"How'd you know?" she asked softly. Her fingers curled tightly into the soft worn flannel of his shirt.

"Gut feeling," said Harry.

They'd both learned to accept that his gut feelings were pretty on point. Hermione's mouth squinched into something was that a cross between an annoyed sort of lip-purse and a grimace. "Are you sure?"

"No, not at all, Hermione, just like how I wasn't sure that he was a Death Eater in sixth year."

Hermione hit him with her pillow for good measure.

It didn't do very much.

Harry grinned widely at her, but it didn't reach his eyes. He was as tired as she was, and as he pulled his glasses off, the world turned to fuzzy colours and even dimmer lighting.

"C'mon, Hermione. Let's get some sleep," mumbled Harry into the top of her head. He felt like he was telling everyone to get some sleep, these days, and that was a bit of a disappointment.

Hermione nodded sleepily, closed her eyes, and curled up ever closer.

She breathing went slow and even, and Harry let the sound of it lull him to sleep.

There were worse things in the world than sleeping safe. There were far, far worse things in the world than sleeping safe. He didn't know how much longer they'd be able to keep this up, especially now with Malfoy along for the ride (his brain muttered fuzzily about _leverage_, but Harry wasn't that kind of person, and it simply didn't feel right), but, well, for now…

For now, he'd take what he could get.

Harry slept.

—

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_tbc_.


	3. crop circles in the carpet

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
**dedication**: to the usual culprits.  
**notes**: so it's thanksgiving, and I'm writing shit.

**chapter title**: crop circles in the carpet  
**summary**: Ron leaves, Hermione cries, and Harry feels nothing at all. Three days later, Draco Malfoy turns up, and things get… interesting. — Draco/Hermione, others.

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Harry woke to the sound of arguing.

For a moment, he thought that he'd dreamt the past few days: that Ron had never left, and Hermione was just being her usual self and hitting him with an encyclopedia or something to showcase her displeasure.

But then he realized that Ron couldn't have come back, because they'd moved, and. Well. Malfoy.

It was no wonder there was arguing. Hermione couldn't stand Malfoy (for that matter, Harry could barely stand him—second chances were all well and good, but that didn't mean that six years of enmity disappeared over night. He was just going to have to deal with it for now), and Harry was quite positive that Malfoy was lucky if he'd remained unhexed for this long.

Hermione was quite handy with hexes (and curses and healing and Obliviation—just not so much cooking).

Harry pushed the curtain that separated the kitchen from Hermione's room out of the way, and found himself in a warzone. Or at the very least, that was what it looked like. Hermione and Malfoy were snarling at each other like a pair of feral wolves in the midst of a splatter of what _looked_ like eggs and toast, but Harry wasn't quite sure. It _might_ have been something else, but if it was, he didn't want to know just _what_ it was that had left such odd bits and pieces of food about.

"What're you _doing_?" asked Harry.

(Honestly, if this was what he was going to wake up to for the foreseeable future, he was going to end up strangling them both and looking for the Horcruxes on his _own_.)

They both turned to look at him, wide-eyed. It seemed they'd completely forgotten about him. Well, that was amusing, wasn't it—a little odd, but amusing for certain. Suddenly, they looked like a pair of children caught with their hands in a cookie jar, and Harry thought they were ridiculously transparent.

Hermione got her bearings first, and she reached up to smooth her hair. "Oh, er, Harry. Um. We were."

"Granger, stop talking. Potter doesn't give a shit what we were doing."

Hermione lost any control over her hair she had, and whipped back around to face Malfoy. "Oh, I'm sure you know _exactly_ what Harry cares about, you loathsome little—"

"Always with the insults, Granger, can't you come up with something—"

"—and you wouldn't have a clue, anyway, would you? You traitor—"

"—_traitor_? So we're coming out with it then, now I'm a _traitor_—"

"—and you _always were_! But you were too scared, and now you've come running to us—"

"—as though I _want_ to be here, Granger—"

"—like a _child_, and I am so _sick_ of you, Malfoy, I could just—!"

"Uh, are you two going to behave, or do I have to set up separate pens for you?" Harry broke into the furious argument. This was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever seen from either—yes, Malfoy was a git on good days and Hermione was a banshee on bad days, but they were all adults now, and they really ought to have been past this.

They stared at him.

"But Harry!" said Hermione.

"Stay out of this, Potter," said Malfoy at the exact same time, and they turned and glared fiery daggers at each other again.

Harry had to cover his laugh with a cough, because it would _not_ do to alert these two mad hatters to the fact that he thought them fairly humorous. Well, if Malfoy was good for something, it was probably going to be finally allowing Hermione to snap and destroy everything in her path.

Then again, that might be the worst-case scenario.

Harry had to do damage control. "What happened?"

"I was making breakfast, Potter—" sneered Malfoy.

"He was going to _poison_ us, Harry!" cried Hermione, hair still wild.

"You can cook?" asked Harry.

"Yes, and things were fine until this mad bint attacked me from behind," Malfoy drawled, and sent another scathing glare in Hermione's direction.

"I am not a mad bint, excuse me—"

"I haven't a wand, you mad witch, what did you expect me to do—!?"

Harry could have watched them all day. That was the kind of entertainment Hermione and Malfoy provided, and Harry thought Ron would have agreed. But then again, Ron probably would have exploded entirely simply from having Malfoy in their general vicinity, so there was that.

Harry sighed aloud.

"Could the two of you quit it?" he asked plaintively. "You're making my head hurt."

They both went quiet, and Harry thought Hermione and Malfoy were sorry only for causing him angst, and not at all sorry for trying to rip each other's throats out. He should've have expected that. It was going to take the pair of them some time to figure out where they sat with each other, and until they did, all they were going to do was fight.

Harry wanted to be mad at them both, but all he could muster was fond disbelief.

"We need to clean this place up," Harry said. He felt far too much like the only adult in the room, and it was _tiring_. "Hermione, could you—?"

She sort of smiled and nodded, and shot Malfoy a nastily smug glance as she whipped her wand out and cleaned the place spotless with one flick. Harry sighed out heavily when he caught sight of how Malfoy regarded her—he was going to say something just as nastily smug as that glance had been.

"Well, Granger, that only proves you're just about as useful as a house-elf—"

"_PROTEGO_," Harry thundered, just as Hermione _screamed_. She clawed at the barrier he'd set between them, and Malfoy stood on the other side, smirking with his arms crossed.

"Shouldn't have gone there with the house-elves," Harry told Malfoy. "Touchy subject with her."

"Touchy subject?! Harry James Potter, you take this barrier down _right now_, or so _help me, Morgana_—!" Hermione screeched.

"No," Harry said. "Time-outs for the both of you. Hermione, go back to bed, you need more sleep. And Malfoy—" Harry looked at him, judging for a minute. It took a great deal of courage to be willing to rile a witch up to the level Malfoy had riled Hermione, especially given that Malfoy didn't have a wand and Hermione was _dangerous_ with hers. "—get back in the kitchen; I'll deal with you afterward."

Hermione _steamed_. And she flung herself back into her room, fury radiating from her every pore. Harry thought of following her, but decided against it—she needed time to cool off, and while she was in a room with Malfoy's wand, Hermione wasn't vindictive enough to break it just out of spite.

Besides, Harry thought grimly, having an extra wand on hand was never a bad thing.

"Look, Malfoy," said Harry slowly. "You can't do that to Hermione. She's—all I've got, right now. And I can't afford to lose her. You're not worth that."

Malfoy looked right back at him, and something settled between them. Good. Hermione and Malfoy would still fight, Harry knew; there was no stopping that, because they just ran on different wavelengths. But Hermione was as close to a sister as he had, and nothing was worth losing her, at this point. Nothing.

"Were you actually making breakfast?" asked Harry.

"Yes," Malfoy grumbled. "I was. But then your witch came screaming out of there and tried to murder me with her hair."

"Yeah, she does that when she's mad," Harry nodded sagely and tried not to snort.

Malfoy had a dry sort of wit, and Harry thought that in a world where he hadn't met Ron first (well, Harry supposed, really he _had_ met Malfoy first, but he'd _spoken_ to Ron first), he and Draco Malfoy might have been very good friends. This was excusing the whole Death Eater thing, because that wasn't so hot, but Harry had a sneaking suspicion that if he and Malfoy had been friends from the start, he might have been able to change where Malfoy had ended up.

Malfoy went back to the kitchen, and Harry went to find Hermione and deal with her wrath.

(It wasn't until later that he thought to wonder what on earth Malfoy had done to enrage Hermione so, and by then, things had moved in such a way that it didn't matter, anymore.)

She was sitting on her bed with her arms around her knees. She looked very small, except for the large mass of her hair, and Harry reached for her to run his fingers through her hair. She calmed further under his touch, and she pressed her face into his stomach.

"I think I hate him, Harry," she whispered to him. "I think I hate him more than I've ever hated anyone ever."

"Can't really blame you for that," Harry said in reply. "He says you started it?"

"Maybe," Hermione mumbled.

Harry snorted. Of course she had. Hermione didn't take anything from anyone—Malfoy really was lucky she hadn't slapped him again, because there was nothing in the world that would stop her if she really wanted to.

They sat on the bed for a little while together, holding hands.

(Harry missed Ginny so much he thought he might be sick with it. He wasn't going to tell anyone that, though.)

"Do you want to go back out there?" Harry asked quietly, sometime later.

Hermione sort of shrugged, and allowed him to pull her away from the bed and to her feet, and she followed him out back into the relative brightness of the main tent. She pointedly did not look at Malfoy, and Harry didn't really blame her for that, either.

This time, there were eggs and toast waiting for them, still steaming, and Malfoy was sitting calmly at their little table-for-four, eating quietly.

Harry watched Hermione eyeball him as they sat down, and he wondered how long it would be until someone tried to kill someone else. He wouldn't bet on long.

But they managed to finish the meal—turned out that Malfoy was actually a decent cook, and without a word, Hermione and Harry mutually agreed that that would be his given chore from then on—and no one threw anything or got hurt.

For that matter, no one said anything at all, but either way, Harry counted it as a win.

Hermione and Harry did the dishes without a word, and then they all sat back down at their little table. They both looked at Malfoy. He stared back.

Well, this wasn't going anywhere if anyone didn't say anything soon.

Harry wanted to sigh or pinch the bridge of his nose, or one of the many habits he'd developed in his cohabitation with Hermione and Ron and now Malfoy—he had a dark feeling he was going to sigh a lot a more with Malfoy around, if only because Hermione was going half-crazy with the need to destroy him.

Sometimes, Harry didn't know why wanted friends at all. He also had this really awful feeling that he was going to be playing referee for the foreseeable future.

Strangling them both seemed like the more preferable option.

"So," he said at last. "Malfoy. What do you know?"

Malfoy's face went blank. "What do you want to know?"

Hermione was the one to lean forward, hair everywhere and dangerous gleam in her eyes. She looked a bit manic, and Harry thought that maybe really should have done this alone, but—

She smiled. "Tell us _everything_, Malfoy."

Malfoy stared at Hermione for a long time, and Harry thought that they'd forgotten about him again.

"Fine," he said.

And with that, Malfoy began.

—

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_tbc_.

**notes2**: hey, Chloe? Sorry I'm not sorry. WHEEE.


	4. tumble down a hill

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
**dedication**: to Sonya. /pats face  
**notes**: it's Christmas and my parents and their friends are hammered as fuck. classy adults they are.

**chapter title**: tumble down a hill  
**summary**: Ron leaves, Hermione cries, and Harry feels nothing at all. Three days later, Draco Malfoy turns up, and things get… interesting. — Draco/Hermione, others.

—

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"You're lying."

"Why would I lie?"

"Because you're—you're _you_, of course you're lying!"

"I have no _reason_ to lie, Granger."

Harry looked between Hermione and Malfoy. They'd been volleying insults back and forth for the past half hour; if Harry hadn't been so tired, he would have been quite enjoying the show. It had always been enjoyable to watch the pair of them go head-to-head.

(It was even more enjoyable when Hermione hexed Malfoy so hard he couldn't see straight. But now was probably not the time for that.)

"Hermione," Harry said quietly.

She slumped back in her seat with her hair everywhere, looking utterly disgusted with this whole process. On a normal day, Harry wouldn't have blamed her, but now wasn't the time for petty school rivalries.

He was pretty sure he'd been over this, already.

But what Malfoy had told them was troubling. Voldermort, living in Malfoy Mansion whilst he directed the world to its untimely end? There was food for thought—Harry had no idea what was going on in the Dark Lord's mind, but it couldn't be anything good.

"Malfoy, did he ever, I dunno, disappear for long stretches of time?"

Malfoy looked at him as though he'd grown another head. "No, Potter. The man has a Ministry to run."

Harry rolled his eyes. The git was never going to change—Merlin, there was no telling why he'd thought this was going to be a good idea. Lowered wand or not, Malfoy was more annoying than biting blackflies.

But there were other things, too.

The Taboo, in particular, was a horrid little bit of magic. They were far out, far removed from humanity, but there were still ways to track speakers. Perhaps it a bit of good luck, then, that—Harry had to force himself to think the name—_Ron_ had forced them to stop saying it.

Harry glanced at Hermione. She was chewing on her bottom nail, eyes flickering from Malfoy's face to her little beaded bag, and he knew she was thinking of the books. The awful Horcrux books, tucked deep down at the bottom of her bag seemed to call at all of them.

Bad luck, they were.

The three of them huddled over the little wooden table. Harry played mediator, much as he always had—Hermione had a bad habit of getting into fights that she was going to win but make a million enemies along the way, and this was especially true in Malfoy's case.

If Ron had still been there with them, there would have been a problem.

But Harry could deal with Hermione and Malfoy's mutual animosity. They probably wouldn't pull him into it (much), and they were both far too intelligent to resort to pounding on each other the way Ron and Malfoy would have. They would just snark at each other until one or the other finally exploded and tried to hex the other into oblivion.

Harry rubbed his temples.

He didn't want to deal with _any_ of this.

"…We need to move. We can't stay here," Hermione said softly. She pointedly ignored Malfoy—she ignored him so thoroughly, he might as well have been a fly on the wall for all she cared. Harry thought she was trying rather too hard, but he didn't say that for fear she'd curse his fingers together.

"Then where, Hermione?"

"Yes, where do you propose we'd go, Granger?"

Hermione turned to look at Malfoy with a look on her face that Harry had long dubbed _The Ron_. It was usually accompanied by heavy breathing through her nose and a thick vein pulsing in the side of her neck. Neither had showed up yet, and so Harry wasn't too worried. She wasn't about to hex Malfoy.

(Not yet, anyway.)

She took one long slow breath, and then said "Do you hear anything strange, Harry? I think we must have mice…"

"Oh, I'm sure you'd love that, wouldn't you, Granger? Mice, much easier to deal with—"

"I wasn't _talking_ to you, Malfoy—!"

"—you talking _about_ me, it's the same thing—"

"—because I don't talk to cowards, much less—"

"—really, Granger, really? Cowards again—"

"—like you're _any better_! You insult my hair and call it a day—!"

"—what happened to your vocabulary? If I remember correctly, you once—"

"—because your itsy bitsy brain can't comprehend what it means to have _friends_, and—"

Harry looked between them again, far too amused with this situation to be angry. Yes, he was tired; that was something that was likely never going to change. But that didn't mean he was too tired to watch Hermione and Malfoy have a go at each other.

However.

It was something of a detriment to what they were trying to do.

Which was not in Harry's—or anyone's, really, for that matter—best interest. And so Harry heaved a great sigh, and said loudly "_Ahem_."

Hermione and Malfoy appeared to have forgotten he was there again.

(Interesting. It was something to peruse later. When neither of the aforementioned parties were around, because sometimes Harry spoke aloud to himself without realizing, and that would not only be detrimental to the mission, it would be rather detrimental to his health. Malfoy might not have had a wand, but it had been wordlessly agreed upon that he would do the cooking, and Harry had no desire to be poisoned while he was eating mash for breakfast. As for Hermione… well, she was another story entirely.)

"You were saying?"

"Godric's Hollow," she said quietly. She shook her hair out of her face and tilted her chin up and out, just as she always did when she was confronting something that she didn't particularly want to confront. "I know—Harry, it might be painful, but… we have no other _leads_, we need to _something_—"

Harry looked at Hermione, and felt a painful rush of affection for her.

She always knew just what he wanted to do, especially when she knew what he wanted before he wanted it himself.

"…It's dangerous there, Granger," Malfoy said into his cup.

"Pardon?" Hermione asked through her teeth.

"I said it's _dangerous_ there," Malfoy repeated. He looked rather irritated. "The Dark Lord would expect you to go back there. He is not a fool."

"Us," Harry said.

"What?"

"Not _you_, Malfoy. _Us_," Harry said. He looked at Hermione out of the corner of his eye. She was still chewing on her lip, and she looked rather infuriated at the world in general. She also looked like she didn't trust Malfoy as far as she could throw him, and that wouldn't do.

There would be no rebuilding the world if the founders of said new world couldn't stand to look at each other.

Harry made a decision.

"Do you know what we're doing, Malfoy?"

Hermione gasped. "Harry—!"

Harry stared at her, and she sat back, grumbling.

"Haven't a clue," Malfoy said, an unpleasant sneer across his face. He was eyeing Hermione, and not paying an iota of attention to Harry. This normally wouldn't have bothered Harry (Hermione certainly could more than take care of herself), but right there, it was a flat-out pain in the arse. He had important things to say!

"Malfoy, we're looking for Horcruxes."

That caught his attention. "Horcruxes."

"Yeah. D'you know what they are?" Harry asked.

"Do I want to know, Potter?"

Hermione's fingers were flexing. Harry could tell she thought this was a Very Bad Idea. But then, she thought all of his ideas were Very Bad Ideas—Harry could list half a dozen off the top of his head. And really, he hadn't died yet, so they couldn't be Terribly Bad Ideas, could they?

"They're bits of—" Harry paused to wave his hand "—You-Know-Who's soul."

Malfoy looked disgusted. "What?"

That was a good reaction, as far as Harry was concerned. He blinked innocuously at Hermione. "Want to do the honours and explain it to him, Hermione? You're better at it than I am."

"There's more to it than just that, Harry," she said. But the flattery seemed to placate her, and her ruffled feathers slowly began to settle back into place. She rubbed her forehead. "We don't even know what they are, they could be _anything_—they could be _anywhere_, and—I don't know."

"Must be new for you, Granger."

"Pardon?"

"Not knowing things. Must be interesting, feeling like the rest of us," Malfoy said. There was a malicious glint to his eyes, and he was actually almost smiling.

Hermione steamed.

This was _never_ going to work.

They were _doomed_.

Malfoy couldn't keep his mouth shut, and Hermione couldn't take a joke. Harry let his head thunk down onto the table-top.

She stood up from the table, hair and eyes wild. She quite nearly shoved it over, spun around on her heel, and headed right back to her bedroom. Second time today—that was a record, not even Ron had managed that. Usually Hermione just cut Ron to shreds and then went about her day. This was different.

"Ow," said Harry, rubbing at his newest bump. "Do you have to do that to her?"

"No one else does, Potter," Malfoy said smugly.

"Yeah, because the rest of us a have self-preservation instinct. We all love Hermione. But when she's mad, she's _scary_, mate."

"You're all terrified of her, aren't you," said Malfoy.

It wasn't a question.

"When she's angry," Harry specified.

He was of the opinion that he was entirely allowed to be terrified of her. Hermione was _dangerous_ when she was angry, whether she had a wand or not. The wand just made her _more_ dangerous, but Harry had seen her frost the people that made her angry out, and it was never a pretty sight. They were all far better off just staying out of her way.

Malfoy just shook his head and slurped his tea.

Harry would have been offended, but this was _Malfoy_.

After a moment:

"…I think I know where we could look, Potter," said Malfoy.

Harry perked up. "Where?"

Malfoy looked grim for a moment. "Gringotts, Potter. In my aunt's vault."

Harry's tea cup was empty. "…You're mad," he said.

Malfoy smirked. "You're thinking about it, Potter."

It was sad because it was true. Harry just shook his head. He'd known for as long as he'd been a part of the magical world that breaking into Gringotts was the last thing he'd ever want to try in his entire life. He remembered the goblins and their large staring eyes, the long fingers and ears, the pointed teeth.

"We can't. Not without someone to get us inside."

Malfoy's gaze was cool. "Then we find someone, Potter. You make this sound harder than it is."

Harry shook his head again, wearily this time. "Shut up, Malfoy."

Malfoy raised his hands, but didn't look regretful at all.

And again, Harry had to examine his reasons for allowing Malfoy to stay with them. They couldn't be good enough to have to put up with this—Malfoy and Hermione were going to drive him up the wall if they didn't have someone to mediate their fights, and Harry certainly did not want to be the one stuck with _that_ job.

Because at this rate, he was going to find a way to lock them in a room together and not let them out until they'd sorted themselves out.

(And wouldn't that just be the day. Hermione and Malfoy, being civil to each other.)

"I'll talk to Hermione, Malfoy," said Harry. "Try not to bother her, yeah?"

Malfoy's lips pulled up again.

"I'll try, Potter," he said.

Harry could tell that he didn't mean it at all.

—

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.

_tbc_.


	5. when she hits you, you feel no pain

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
**dedication**: to Sailor V.  
**notes**: ambience and power, power and grace.  
**notes2**: barfs.

**chapter title**: when she hits you, you feel no pain  
**summary**: Ron leaves, Hermione cries, and Harry feels nothing at all. Three days later, Draco Malfoy turns up, and things get… interesting. — Draco/Hermione, others.

—

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Harry lay in bed that night, and thought about the fact that somehow, Draco Malfoy was in the next room, and no one was trying to kill each other. They were going to be packing up in the morning, because despite Malfoy's ridiculous suggestion of attacking Gringotts, they couldn't stay where they were.

Hermione slept curled in a tight ball on the other cot. The tear spots on her pillow weren't fading, yet, and Harry wondered how many more nights she would cry herself to sleep.

Some nights, seventeen seemed so young.

Some nights, seventeen seemed older than the entire universe.

And it was one of those nights. Hermione looked tiny and young and vulnerable on her cot. She was nothing more than a lump of blankets and wild hair, but Harry could see the curl of her fingers around her wand—she didn't sleep without it, anymore.

Maybe she slept better for it.

He wouldn't blame her, either way. The wireless didn't play anything, anymore, just a long stream of words that never made sense (_Undesirable Number 1_, Merlin, what were they even going on), and they sat through it playing dice and not-Exploding Snap because there was nothing else to do.

Hermione slept on.

Harry slipped out of bed, and tried to make not a single sound as he slipped through the canvas door and into the kitchen. He was looking for a cup of tea—something, anything, but what he found was something else entirely.

Draco Malfoy sat at the table, staring at a mess of cards strew all over the wood. Harry sat down across from him—they seemed to be doing that a lot, these days—and for a moment, they just looked at each other.

"I never learned any Muggle card games," said Malfoy. He continued to stare morosely at the cards. "My father would have killed me."

Whether he was being serious or not, no one was never to find out. The both very carefully did not talk about their childhoods, because it was easier that way. Harry gathered the cards up, shuffled and dealt. It wasn't Exploding Snap, but one summer on the train ride home, Hermione had taught Harry how to play Go Fish, and that was better than nothing. It was the only game he knew how to play.

And so, ten minutes later:

"D'you have a two, Malfoy?" asked Harry.

"Go fish, Potter," said Malfoy.

"Ha, got my wish!" Harry snickered, and set the pair of twos aside.

Malfoy swore loudly.

"Shut it, you'll wake Hermione up!"

"Oh, because Granger's that dangerous," sneered Malfoy.

Harry stared at him a little dubiously. As far as he could remember, they had been over this—Hermione _was_ rather dangerous, especially when woken from her slumper. Clearly, Malfoy wasn't going to believe how cutthroat Hermione could be until she cursed him across the room and left him to bleed. It would happen eventually, and then there'd be no need to talk about it.

"Are you serious about Gringotts? asked Harry. "Have a seven?"

"Fish, Potter, fish."

"Bollocks," said Harry. He glanced down at his cards, made a face, and waited for Malfoy's reply to his first question.

"Ace, Potter?"

"Merlin's balls," swore Harry, and tossed the card across the table. He waited—still patiently, but less so, now, as Harry Potter did not like losing to Draco Malfoy—but wasn't about to give the git the satisfaction of asking a second time.

"It's our best bet," Malfoy said quietly. He looked as old as Harry had felt earlier—looked as old as the entire universe, like he was carrying the world all on its own. It was isolating, in a way, but Harry nodded a little. Perhaps it was their best bet.

"No, it isn't," came another voice. Harry and Malfoy turned at the same time to find a bundle of blankets and hair that was Hermione just woke up, glowering at them with everything she had. "Thanks _so_ much for letting me sleep."

Harry cowered.

Malfoy did not.

Malfoy stared straight back at her, raised an eyebrow, and waited for the hurricane that was a sleep-deprived Hermione Granger to punch him in the face. She was going to ruin him, everyone knew it.

Harry could only wish him luck.

Godspeed.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, and looked like she was about to reach for her wand. There was a good chance that this was going to be the point when she finally snapped and aimed for Malfoy's throat (though, really, she'd been aiming at his throat since he'd first showed up), and Harry would have to step in to prevent a murder or eight.

But she didn't do that at all.

Instead of cursing Malfoy within an inch of his life, she sat down at the table. She said "Since neither of you can shut up long enough to let me sleep, one of you is going to make me a pot of tea, and the other is going to make me a piece of toast. Am I understood?"

She stared at them with a look so reminiscent of Professor McGonagall on her face that both boys jumped up from the table, card game all but forgotten, and went to do exactly as she bid. They left her fiddling with the wireless.

Under cover of the crackle, Malfoy muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "Is that… _normal_, Potter?"

Harry had to stop himself from grinning horribly and going _I told you so_. That might have been a little too childish, not that anyone really cared. A little childishness was probably a good thing, because the sun wasn't even up, and Malfoy was finally properly scared of Hermione Granger.

(Hopefully.)

"Yeah," said Harry grimly. Malfoy didn't have a clue how to handle Hermione. It didn't really surprised him at all—it had taken he, Harry, more than half a decade to really understand what was going on inside of her head (not that he always understood what was going on in her head—in fact, most of the time, he still didn't have a clue. Girls were very strange creatures, he had long decided).

As far as Harry could tell, Malfoy was rather fucked in that regard.

"Merlin," said Malfoy, shaking his head, and went to put the kettle on.

Harry busied himself with trying to find a loaf of bread (did they even _have_ bread? When was the last time they'd had _bread_?) and some jam to keep Hermione from eviscerating everything in sight.

Somehow, it was better than thinking about Ron.

"Here, Granger," Malfoy set a steaming cup of _something_ down in front of Hermione. Harry watched the exchange with something akin to interest out of the corner of his eye. The pair of them were glaring at each other; there was no love lost, there.

"Thank you," said Hermione. She didn't sound grateful at all.

Malfoy grumbled something that was probably rude. Hermione's eyes turned to bright brown slats in her face. And for a minute, they could have been thirteen years old again: waiting for Buckbeak's execution, and Hermione had just _punched Malfoy in the face_.

(It was still such a good memory. Harry grinned to himself, glad that neither Malfoy nor Hermione had any idea how to use Legilimency.)

Harry found the whole thing far funnier than perhaps he should have.

He ducked out of the tent before he lost it entirely. He thought maybe he'd go check the wards.

If he accidentally laughed himself sick when no one could hear him, well, that was something else entirely.

(Harry thought of Ginny, and almost got sick, anyway.)

—

Hermione looked down into the cup of tea-that-was-not-tea-Malfoy-who-taught-you-to-make-tea-_you-moron_, and chewed on her lip. It was long habit, but she'd just watched Harry go out the door. She'd spent too much of her life trying to keep _him_ alive to want to leave him alone for any stretch of time.

"Why are you here, Malfoy?"

It was the first time they'd been alone together.

(It was the first time Harry had trusted them not to try to kill each other. His faith was sadly misplaced; Hermione couldn't ever see a time when she _wouldn't_ want to push Malfoy in front of the Night Bus.)

"Pardon, Granger? I couldn't hear you over the sound of your brain working," he sneered.

It took every bit of willpower that Hermione possessed to keep herself from causing the pale, pointy person in front of her some _extreme harm_.

"I suppose you're just not used to it, Malfoy," Hermione said sweetly. "After all, brain functions _are_ a bit beyond you, _aren't_ they?"

Malfoy's pale eyes went icy, and Hermione felt a rush of vicious satisfaction.

She wasn't even going to pretend she was okay with this.

"You still haven't answered my question. You don't like questions, do you, Malfoy?"

And still, he stayed silent.

Hermione turned her cup round and round in her hands, and thought of Divination, where she'd left and never returned. They'd had tea, then, too; awful-tasting and over-steeped, it had needed sugar and cream to make it even a little palatable.

She'd hated it then. She hated the memory of it, now. And though she knew now that the dregs in Harry's cup had spoken of Sirius, and that there _were_ such things as accurate prophecies, this was… this was still something they had to do.

Belief was a powerful thing in the magical world.

Voldemort believed. Harry believed because Voldemort believed.

And thus, so did Hermione.

She would always believe Harry. Always. Even when it involved keeping a horrid little pustle called Draco Malfoy with them—it was what Harry wanted, what he thought would keep them alive. Hermione didn't really want to think that Malfoy could have anything good in him, because it happily upturned everything she had ever known, but…

Her tea had gone lukewarm.

"Do you ever think about school, Malfoy?" she asked.

"No," said Malfoy.

"Liar," said Hermione.

He didn't answer her, after that. They sat at the table and didn't say anything for a while. The silence was too tense for comfort—maybe it always would be, there was no really telling, because they were both so sick with themselves and each other that it didn't even matter.

Hermione stood up from the table. Shook out her hair, sharpened her gaze, shivered and shivered. She looked at him for a second, then shook her head to herself.

"You don't get it," she said. "You don't get it all."

Malfoy very carefully avoided her gaze. Like always, Hermione thought, because he never looked at her right in the eye. It was like he was ashamed.

Good.

He should be.

A minute later, she stomped back to her room.

On the way out, she knocked the tea all over his lap, just to make a point.

—

Later, Harry come back to find Malfoy sitting at a tea-soaked table, glassy-eyed and not moving. The cards had gotten soaked, too; they stuck to each other and to the tabletop, tiny unmoving features blurring into each other until they didn't even look human anymore.

Harry wanted to say that Malfoy deserved this, but he didn't, really. No one deserved this.

And Hermione could be so, so vindictive.

"C'mon, Malfoy," said Harry. "Let's go for a walk."

He cleared away the tea and the ruined cards, and nodded towards the tent's flap to the outside. Malfoy didn't say thank you, but Harry hadn't expected that he would. He did stand up, though, so that was better than nothing, anyway.

Harry thought he could feel Hermione's accusing stare on the back of his neck. _I'm sorry, Hermione_, he thought.

He pulled Malfoy outside, anyway.

—

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_tbc_.


	6. take your foot off the brake

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
**dedication**: to Sailor V, again.  
**notes**: and then I guess this happened.  
**notes2**: for future reference: TREASURE PLANET IS NOT A KID'S MOVIE

**chapter title**: take your foot off the brake  
**summary**: Ron leaves, Hermione cries, and Harry feels nothing at all. Three days later, Draco Malfoy turns up, and things get… interesting. — Draco/Hermione, others.

—

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"Hermione, I want to go to Godric's Hollow."

She was sitting in the sagging chair that squeaked everytime someone moved in it, with Spellman's Syllabary and Beedle open in her lap. It was the first time that Harry had seen her at the book since—Harry still refused to think his name—had run off and left them with Malfoy.

She looked up at him, and ignored Malfoy at his side entirely. Her eyes were clear of tears for the first time in a long time.

"Yes," she said. "I was thinking we might have to."

"And I know you think it's an awful idea, but—wait, what?"

"She said _yes_, Potter. You would think you'd be used to the notion," Malfoy sneered.

Harry ignored him (and to be honest, he had a sneaking suspicion that Malfoy was about as bollocks at cilivity as Harry was at paying attention to Hermione when she went off on a rant about house-elves), and grinned widely at her. "So we can go?"

Hermione sighed, and closed her books. "We haven't anything else to go on. It's the only lead we've got."

Harry tried very hard to restrain his glee. He failed rather spectacularly, and couldn't help the stupid grin across his face. "When do we leave?"

She gave him a very beady look. "We'll need to practise Disapparating beneath the cloak with three people—" and here, she paused to shoot a very nasty glare at Malfoy that was highly reminiscent of Aunt Petunia staring down a particularly stubborn piece of dirt "—and maybe Disillusionment charms, or do you think Polyjuice potion? It might be our best bet—"

Harry had already tuned the conversation out. He was going home, finally—home to where he'd had a family.

"Both, Granger. Only an idiot would use one—what was that about a cloak?" Malfoy asked. He eyed her up and down. Harry thought that that was a Very Bad Idea.

"Not that it's any of _your_ business—"

"Actually, Hermione…" said Harry.

"Shut up, Harry," she spoke over him as she shot up from chair, books forgotten. "You know I'm against this, but I've—I've thought about it." Her breath was deep and slow. "I hate you, Malfoy. And I have _no reason_ to trust you. _Give_ me one."

Harry shot a glance at Malfoy. He felt like this was about to go very badly for all involved.

"You'll just have to give me a chance, won't you, Granger," Malfoy said. His eyes glittered with something a little more dangerous than malice. He was still eyeing Hermione up and down, like she was a rabid wolf, and he was the one sent to deal with her.

Harry looked between them, bemused, and entirely forgotten.

(Ron was going to have a _fit_.)

"I suppose I will," said Hermione. Her gaze skipped over Malfoy and settled on a place left of Harry's ear. "We need food. Proper food. I hate to do it, but… this is your chance, Malfoy. Don't muck it up."

Harry still thought this was a Very Bad Idea.

"The great leader deems me worthy to go on my own, then?" Malfoy smirked.

"You would take me for a fool," Hermione replied. She set her hands on her hips, hair fluffing up with her anger, and continued. "If you go, Malfoy, I go."

"What about me?" asked Harry.

Hermione sent him a very disappointed look, and he was struck by the bizarre desire to laugh. This whole thing—the whole thing—it was mad. They were all mad. Mental, completely mental; they had absolutely no idea what they were getting into.

Maybe Ron had been right, getting out when he could.

"You'll stay here, Harry," said Hermione. There was an edge to her voice that dared him to contradict her, but the look in her was just tired. He had never seen her _tired_; he'd seen her exhausted and covered in slime and wearing the slightly manic look that he associated with exam review, but never tired. Not like this, at any rate.

"Need I remind you of the _ten-thousand Galleon_ price on your head, Harry Potter?"

"No, Hermione," Harry replied dutifully. He rather thought his tone was exactly like how an abashed child would address his mother.

"Good," said Hermione. She turned her attention back to Malfoy. "And you! No funny business. No wand. No _nothing_, do you understand me?"

Malfoy _bowed_ at her. It was entirely mocking, and it only infuriated Hermione more, but Harry was dually impressed. He was quite sure that Malfoy had never bowed to another person in his entire life.

The fact that it was Hermione to whom he bowed was delightfully ironic.

"Oi, play nice," said Harry, though really he had no idea whom he was speaking to; both Hermione and Malfoy blinked at him owlishly. He spoke as slowly as he would to a small child, so that they would understand. "I won't be there to keep you from killing each other. Try to come back in one piece, yeah?"

Hermione tossed her hair over her shoulder with an incensed _huff_. "Don't you tell me what to do, Harry Potter. I've had more than enough of _that_." She tossed her head again. "I'm going to find the cloak."

Harry thought that if she'd had had the presence of mind to grab one of her books or a quill, she might very well have put his eye out. She left to find the cloak, and she stuck her nose high up in the air as she went.

Classic Hermione, Harry thought, fond.

Malfoy just looked at him. "What the fuck is this cloak that bat keeps talking about, Potter?"

"An Invisibility Cloak," said Harry, hesitant. He'd never shared his cloak with anyone except Ron and Hermione, and with good reason: it certainly was the explanation for much of his undetected wrongdoing. And he had long had a distinct feeling that it was a secret that was meant to be _kept_ secret.

But the Sneakoscope on his bedside table stayed silent, these days. And Malfoy wasn't going to be leaving any time soon, Harry knew without a doubt.

It really only made sense to tell him.

"It was my dad's," said Harry.

"And it still works?"

Harry nodded, one shoulder up in a crow's shrug. "Yeah, you'll see."

Malfoy seemed to contemplate this for a second. But then he just nodded, too, and fell silent.

Hermione returned just then, the silver-water material of Harry's cloak pooled in her hands. It seemed to have occurred to her that to Apparate with Malfoy, she was going to have to stand very close to him and—yick—_touch_ him. Harry watched this thought process happen, as though her face was a clear glass oval that he could see right through. The war between having to be that close to someone she so intensely disliked and the prospect of having actual sustenance was a close one, Harry could tell.

But he knew Hermione, and he already knew how this was going to end.

Harry watched the last cogs click into place.

"Come on, Malfoy," Hermione snapped at last. "Get under here."

Harry was treated to the very bizarre sight of Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy standing next to each other and promptly disappearing beneath the cloak—things he could have sworn he'd never see (nor ever want to see, for that matter). The air in which they'd disappeared seemed to ripple for a moment.

Then there was a tiny _pop_! It was the only sign that they'd gone at all.

Harry rubbed his hands across his face. His scar was prickling again.

"Blimey, those two," he sighed.

And then he picked himself up, and went to go take a very well-deserved nap.

—

Hermione had no such luck.

They'd Apparated just a little ways out of a small village, the winter sun a weak shine on their backs. Hermione had no idea if they were going to find supplies, but it was likely—human habitation was always a good indicator of sustenance. They had to walk in tandem, and it was hard, because she didn't like him very much at all.

"Malfoy," she hissed beneath her breath. "Stop squirming! They'll see us!"

Malfoy didn't seem to hear her at all. He was very close to her, right at her back with one hand wrapped tightly around her elbow. He was such a tall spindly thing that he had to stoop to keep their feet covered; Hermione could feel his breath on the back of her neck. Every instinct she had told her to shake him off and jam her elbow back into his stomach hard as she could.

But she didn't.

Much as she hated to admit, she was safer with him at her back.

Not that she really believed it, of course. But he had no wand, and Hermione was not averse to cursing him to pieces if it seemed like he was even a little bit inclined to try to steal hers. So far, he had behaved.

"Muggles," he muttered into her ear. "Granger, why are we following them?"

Hermione was sincerely tempted to hurt him.

Instead, she exhaled slowly through her teeth, the air hissing out of her silently as she counted down backwards from ten to one in the language of the ancients. She whispered "Because that's the grocery, Malfoy."

"Merlin save us, he grumbled. "Granger in a grocery."

"What does _that_ mean, Malfoy?!"

"Nothing," he said, and Hermione could almost _feel_ the smarmy, innocuous smirk on his pale, pointy face. Her hand itched to find his cheek to leave a bright red welt across his skin; the violence would be far more satisfying than having to listen to his horrid whinging.

"It always means _something_," said Hermione.

"You would believe that," said Malfoy in reply. There was no inflection to his voice, and as she could not see his face, she couldn't tell if he was insulting her or not. Given, though, that this _was_ Malfoy, she was going to assume for now that it was.

Which gave her free license to verbally tear him to shreds, should she so choose.

But as she was the mature one, she would not.

"What exactly _is_ a grocery, Granger?"

"A place where Muggles buy food, Malfoy. Did you never take Muggle Studies? Are you really that obtuse?"

If sneering could be vocalized, Malfoy would have done it.

Hermione smile nastily.

They followed the Muggles into the grocery. Malfoy's hand tightened around her elbow, and Hermione thought _good. Be scared, Malfoy. I fight back_.

When are we taking this fucking thing off?" he said into her ear.

"We're not," said Hermione briskly. "How would you feel if two people suddenly appeared out of thin air?"

"We call that Apparition, Granger."

"Shut up," she said succinctly. "Tinned pears?"

"Why are you asking me?"

Hermione steamed. "You are—you are so _hopeless_, Malfoy, you are _so lucky_ that Harry—"

"Lucky? _Lucky_, am I? _Lucky_, that Potter decided—"

"—yes, lucky, Morgana, you are _so lucky_, you don't _deserve_ it—"

"Granger, shut up, there's someone staring at us," Malfoy muttered. "Over there.

Hermione turned her head just long enough to glance to where Malfoy indicated. And he was right, there were two men staring straight through them. She shivered, and muttered "Too close, ferret, we need to get out of here.

She was silent after that. The did the rest of the shopping—because Hermione insisted on dropping some money into the cash register to assuage her scruples—fast as they could, and in relative silence.

Until:

"Granger, we're being followed."

"I know," she breathed. She didn't recognize either of the men following, beyond the fact that were the same staring eyes, and neither, it seemed, did Malfoy. He was holding onto her very tightly.

"Calm down, we're almost away," she murmured. "I'm not going to let you die."

"Interesting way to reassure someone," said Malfoy.

"I hate you," she said for the second time that day, but now it was quiet. Held no malice. He was still at her back, looking over his shoulder every so often to stare suspiciously at the men behind them.

Hermione didn't tell him _thank you_.

Because as soon as they were out of the village, one of them drew a wand.

Death came volleying at Hermione and Malfoy in emerald green.

Hermione felt nothing as the curse hurtled towards her. She was frozen beneath the cloak, and Malfoy hands on her arms; couldn't move at all. This was how she was going to die. Harry would never know what happened. He would never get his father's cloak back. And Ron—

What a stupid thing to think about as you died, Hermione thought, and closed her eyes.

The next thing she knew, the ground was rushing up to meet her, the sky inverting, and Draco Malfoy was screaming in her ear. "GET US OUT OF HERE, GRANGER. ARE YOU A WITCH OR NOT?"

"Oh," said Hermione.

"YOU'VE FOR THE WAND, WITCH!"

The men were upon them, reaching down to pull the cloak off.

Hermione squinched her eyes shut, held onto to Malfoy very tightly, and wished.

—

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_tbc_.

**notes3**: yo, come and say hi?


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